


Lockdown

by Lif61 (UltimateFandomTrash)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Blood, Blood and Injury, Broken Bones, Castiel and Dean Winchester and Sam Winchester are Jack Kline's Parents, Drinking, God is evil, Gore, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Infection, Jack Kline Is Dead, Locked In, Loss of Faith, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), Post-Episode: s14e20 Moriah, Suicidal Thoughts, Surgery, Whump, but like... minor, for now
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2020-10-17 04:55:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20615333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UltimateFandomTrash/pseuds/Lif61
Summary: After Chuck kills Jack, and Sam, Dean, and Castiel face a zombie horde, they hightail it back to the bunker. The Men of Letters set a system in place that keeps them safe in case of catastrophe and they find themselves locked in. With everything ending, they're stuck inside with their dead son, their own pain, and the realization that their lives have not been their own. Is this how they'll face The End?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know I have three other longfics to write, but this came into my head as one of my many goodbyes to Supernatural, so I just had to write. I hope you'll enjoy all the angst, whump, and important conversations that'll follow. This show means the world to me, and I hope I do the characters justice.

Sam was sitting against one of the bookshelves, stone and wood digging into his back. A volume on werewolves and the lunar cycle had been doing the same thing, but he’d gotten fed up with it and had tossed it across the room, and the pages were now bent and crumpled. Dean had put a hand on his bicep at that, gripping tightly, but Sam had shoved him off. Dean also sat beside him, bottle of scotch in hand. Castiel was next to Dean. They all stared ahead. It was dim in the bunker, and before them on one of the tables in the library was Jack, a blindfold wrapped over his eyes so they didn’t have to see.

They should be taking care of themselves, they should be finding a way out of there, they should be doing so many things, but they just sat and stared at their kid who lay there with his eyes burned out by God himself.

God… Sam huffed. To think that he used to pray to him, to think that he had agency in his life, or that he had clawed and scraped for it. Did he even have it now? The universe was ending. Everything was ending.

Story was over.

The End.

His body ached and bled, and so did his family’s, but they were numb, shell-shocked.

After fighting and crawling their way out of the zombies, taking Jack’s body with them, which had been nearly torn to pieces in the melee, they’d high-tailed it back to the bunker. It’d let them in, but now it wasn’t letting them out. Lights had flashed in the war room, alarms screaming, and now they were locked in.

It was trying to keep them safe.

But Chuck could get in if he wanted.

And they couldn’t get out.

“What do we do?” Sam asked.

As if it was an answer, Dean took a long pull from the bottle he held, and he passed it to Sam.

Sam stared at it, unsure about putting poison in his body. He’d drank before when Jack had died, when he’d lost his son the first time. And he’d wanted him dead this time around, some part of him hurting that his mom was gone _ again_, but now that it was real, that it was in front of him, that his body was slowly decomposing before him and his eyes were gone, and the zombies had slashed him up pretty good, and he couldn’t suddenly get up and smile at them, or even try and apologize, or shed a tear… Sam didn’t want it. And he didn’t want to put anything in his body.

The demon blood. That was Chuck.

That wasn’t just Lucifer and his demons, and the angels scheming for the Apocalypse.

That… Fuck, that was _God_.

And if he drank, if he got drunk, did that mean that God would win?

Or was it a choice he made for himself now?

Sam gave up, his head aching, all of him hurting, and he tilted his head back, having a sip.

Dean pat him unthinkingly on the shoulder, the one ripped through with the bullet wound, making Sam grimace, almost choke, and he shoved the bottle back at Dean.

“I suppose we hang out here till we die,” Dean eventually said.

“I believe we fought our way out of that graveyard for a reason,” Cas argued.

Sam watched as he traded a forlorn look with the angel, and Castiel stood, going over to Jack, brushing his hair back from his forehead. Sam grunted, pulled himself to his feet, and stood beside him. He looked wrong with the blindfold, so wrong, as if they were trying to hide things from him like they’d done before his death, but he looked worse without it, stomach churning.

“Jack, I’m so sorry,” Castiel said, voice low. A tear dripped off of his nose.

Seemingly feeling left out, Dean got up, was on the other side of the table now, still drinking. His lips pressed together, turned down, and Sam realized he was trying to hold back tears, maybe trying to not sob.

Sam just felt empty.

“Where do you think he is?” Sam asked.

“The Empty surely has him. With his soul gone— It’s the only place he could go.”

“Chuck was… scared of him,” Sam reasoned, frowning. “I… I don’t get it. He killed a child. Our child. Why…?”

“‘Cause he’s a fucked up son of a bitch who plays with people’s lives, _ our lives_,” Dean intoned, “and he’s out there right now throwing the biggest temper tantrum in the whole goddamn universe, and he ain’t stopping. So how about we say goodbye, huh?”

“Dean!” Cas cried. “We can’t let it end like this!”

“I say we can. You got any better ideas? We’re trapped in here, man. We got our dead kid on a table, Sammy’s hurt, you’re hurt, I’m getting hammered. You think we’re any good to the world anymore? Chuck didn’t just change channels on us. He’s turning the TV off. That’s it! No more Team Free Will 2.0, no more saving the world, no more shit we gotta deal with. Lights out.”

Arguing. Had all their arguments been for God’s entertainment?

Sam didn’t have it in him to join this one, didn’t have any ideas on what to say. He wanted to be the one to come up with a brilliant idea, wanted to say the thing that would turn this whole shitty situation on its head, wanted to stick a middle finger up at Chuck.

But he had nothing. He just rubbed his hand against Jack’s too-cold cheek, and let his eyes fill with tears.

Then he headed off to the infirmary, Dean and Castiel’s raised voices breaking off from their yelling at each other, and asking him where he was going.

“I’m not bleeding to death in here,” he told them. “I say we try and win by living as long as possible.” He paused in the archway to the war room, tilting his head to them. “Got any better ideas?”

Dean fondled the bottle of scotch, eyeing Cas, and then was looking back at him. They both were bleeding, cuts on their faces, bruises, too, and their clothes were stained red.

Dean shrugged, Castiel’s eyes were big, tears in his eyes.

“Alright, angel, after you,” Dean said, arm out for Cas.

Cas glared at him, teeth bared, lip curled up in a slight snarl, but he went first, following after Sam, and then came Dean.

Sam hoped his last few hours, or days, or however long Chuck wanted to drag on his apocalyptic ending wouldn’t be spent with those two being cruel to each other. And he hoped to hell that whatever angsty shit they all held against each other they could just let go of, or else death was going to be an even crueler mistress.


	2. Chapter 2

“_Ahh!_ God damn it!”

Sam gripped the edges of the bed he sat on till his knuckles turned white, and his toes curled in his boots. His shirt was off, and Dean was picking at his shoulder. They hadn’t thought he’d needed to until Sam had undressed, and they’d seen the bruising, all black and purple. And where there wasn’t bruising there was red swelling. Where muscle hadn’t been hit he must’ve clipped bone, maybe the clavicle or the acromion. Pieces had surely broken off.

Castiel had wanted to heal him, but Sam wanted him to use his powers for himself, or save them for trying to get out, or for a last fight that they might have to face. So Castiel was healed now, though he was still filthy, dirt on his face, blood on the collar of his shirt, and he stood by Sam, a hand over his.

“Do you need something to bite down on?” he asked. “You can use my belt.”

“I’m good,” Sam heaved out.

Dean had gone in through the front, but he could feel the tools digging _inside_, and even near the back. The wound went all the way through. If it was wide enough, he wondered if he’d have to pack it.

“_Mmm_… Find anything?”

“Yeah, almost got a piece.”

There was a sharp tingling deep within the throbbing soreness that took over his entire left shoulder, that traveled down towards his elbow, and through to his collarbone and neck, and then a pulling sensation. Sam clenched his jaw, teeth grinding down, and his body shook, sweat beading on his forehead. He screamed through his teeth.

Dean held up the forceps, and there was a tiny sliver of white coated in red held in them.

“Wuss,” Dean teased.

Sam wanted to stick his tongue out at him, but he held it back.

It went on like that, till he was sure there was nothing left, and he did end up needing Castiel’s belt to bite down on.

They didn’t pack the wound, and Dean stitched it up on both sides for him, and Sam was lying on his back, icing it, while a few of his less serious wounds got stitched up, or taken care of with butterfly bandages. There was one across his brow that was sore, and the blood had kept threatening to drip in his eye earlier. Closing it up didn’t take too much work.

Now Dean was taking his flannel off and sitting on the opposite bed, clapping his hands and rubbing them together.

“Okay, my turn.”

A zombie had bitten Dean on his right arm, where his scar from dark Kaia’s spear was. Without the bandana wrapped around it he thought there were some decayed, rotting teeth stuck in there. Sam almost smirked. Payback.

Dean started to drink from his bottle of scotch once more, but Sam grabbed it from him.

“Hey, hey, hey! That’s mine!”

“Need it,” Sam answered simply, and then poured it all over his arm.

Dean grabbed Cas’ thigh, and cried out, breathing hard.

“Fuck you, Sammy!”

Sam shot him a _fuck you_ right back, saying the words with a simple facial expression.

Dean had gotten out with less injuries, but somehow more bloodied, so Cas set to cleaning him as Sam set up the supplies he’d need.

And then he got started on extracting the teeth, not bothering on being gentle. He wasn’t in the mood for gentle. He’d found Dean in a graveyard with their kid on his knees, a gun pointed at his head.

It was over and done with now, and Chuck was enemy number one, but so much had happened recently, and Sam was still trying to process. He was switching back and forth between hurt, angry, and empty, and his body throbbed with every beat of his heart.

“_Argh_, what the hell?” Dean complained. “I went easy on you.”

“Uh huh.”

“Fuck, is that a dead guy’s tooth?” Dean asked.

“Yep.”

“Knew I felt somethin’ in there.”

“Just relax,” Cas told him, rubbing Dean’s shoulder.

“I’ll relax when I’m dead,” Dean answered. “Your daddy tell you when that’ll be?”

“Dean, you know he doesn’t talk to me.”

“Yeah, well mine never did either, unless he was giving me orders.”

Sam sighed, continued digging through the wound, feeling Dean tense, listening to him and Castiel have their on-edge conversation. The wound was too messy to stitch up, and it looked like it was already getting infected. It had yellow pus, and there was inflamed tissue deeper down that he couldn’t get at. Sam winced.

He butted in to what they were saying now, which was something about angel radio, and he asked, “Hey, we got any tubing around here?”

“Uh… why?” Dean asked.

“You’re gonna be leaking fluid,” Sam told him.

“Please never say those words again.”

“Tubing’s in one of the drawers by the scales,” Castiel spoke up.

Sam nodded his thanks, and went searching for it, telling one of them to keep pressure on the wound since it was still oozing something — a bit of blood, maybe some serum.

He’d never really done this before, so his hands were shaking when he came back over with a thin drainage tube and a scalpel. Dean’s eyes went wide, leaning his head back as he stared.

“No. Not happening.”

“Dean, you have an infection,” Sam informed him. “You want the bacteria to grow and take over your arm?”

Dean hugged his arm to himself, frowning. Actually, it almost looked like a pout, a face a child might make.

“I like my arm,” he mumbled.

“Good, then hold it out. Cas, keep him steady, and he’s gonna need your belt.”

“Ew, that was in your mouth.”

“Cas?”

“Yes, I’ll get it.”

Dean grumbled at both of them, but then Cas had his arms around him, and one hand tightly on Dean’s injured arm. His belt was in his mouth, adding more teeth marks to the leather, and Sam set to work. He tried to ignore his brother’s pain, and even his own, as he took the scalpel to his already-injured flesh, and then inserted the drainage tube inside, which had Dean trying to pull away from both of them. Castiel held him steady. Once it was deep enough, Dean’s breaths coming in heavy pants, spit dribbling past his lips, Sam put plenty of gauze, and securely wrapped the area. And hopefully he’d put enough wrappings to soak up the infection as it drained out. He bandaged it up more, covering the tube, and Dean let the belt fall from his mouth.

“God, can the world end already?” he asked. “I’m sick of this shit.”

Sam pat him on the back, and Cas pulled him close.

“We’ll figure something out,” the angel told him. “We’ll get through this.”

Dean closed his eyes, a tear trailing down his cheek.

Sam turned away, not sure if what Castiel said was something either of them wanted to hear.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam slammed a notebook down on the library table, startling Dean from his stupor induced by scotch and too many pain pills. His little brother had taken his fair share of medicine too, but there was still that weird light in his eyes he’d had earlier, an angry determination. Dean didn’t get it. And Castiel, well, he must’ve had something different because he took away Dean’s second bottle of scotch and handed him his sling that he’d purposefully left on the war room table. Huh, he wasn’t treating Sam like that. Well, Sammy was being a good patient and wearing his sling. Dean just tossed his somewhere over on the floor; Cas rolled his eyes, tilting his head too.

Jack’s body was no longer in the room. Thank god. Dean couldn’t stand being around it anymore. It. Yeah, that’s what it was. Jack was gone. Had been gone before he killed Mom, and now any hope of ever seeing his kid again had been murdered by God himself. The body was in one of the cooler drawers in the infirmary. They couldn’t go outside and burn it, so there it stayed.

“We gotta do inventory,” Sam said. “Starting with food. This isn’t like the time Ketch locked us up in here. We have plenty of air. So we’ll most likely die of starvation.”

“Fun,” Dean commented.

Now it was Sam’s turn to roll his eyes.

Castiel seemed frustrated about the sling, and he got up to retrieve it.

Sam kept talking, “We probably don’t have much. Think we last did a supply run before Mom… Before… Anyway, tried contacting the other hunters. No bars. No wi-fi either. Just glad they’re not locked in here with us. Maybe the ones who survived Michael’s attack have a chance.”

Castiel was back with Dean’s sling, and he promptly threw it again. Cas seemed pissed enough to hit him, but he settled for a bitch face to rival one of Sam’s _fuck you_ faces. Dean took his scotch from him, and gave him a nasty look right back.

Sam sighed.

“Hey, can you two focus?”

“Fine, you want us to focus?” Dean asked, pointing a finger at Cas. “Then let’s talk about how Mom’s dead ‘cause he didn’t tell us Jack wasn’t chugging morality fiber with his breakfast smoothies.”

“Dean, we’ve been over this,” Cas argued. “I thought I was doing what was best.”

“Oh, you’re always doing that, aren’t you?”

Sam planted a fist down on the table. “Enough! If you two want to die mad at each other, _fine_, but do it on your own time. Yeah, Mom died. Jack died. And we’re next.”

“Then why drag it out?” Dean asked. “Huh? The way I see it, we should just grab a gun, and…” He made a finger gun with his hand, put it under his chin and mimicked pulling the trigger.

Castiel grabbed his hand, and lowered it, not caring that it was with Dean’s bad arm, and he grunted at the sudden flare of pain. Now he was glaring at him again.

Sam was snapping his fingers, which was a fuzzy sound in Dean’s ears.

“Hey! We can’t give God what he wants.”

“What _does_ God want?” Castiel asked. “We can’t know for sure. Maybe he wants this. Maybe it’s not the end. Maybe he’s playing us _again_. Sam, what if we’re not going to die in here? We have to try and get out.”

Dean continued drinking, setting his feet on the table, just sitting back and watching the conversation, not really caring anymore. God, his arm hurt, and it _itched_.

“With what, Cas? Your Grace? This bunker’s warded against nearly everything. It’s powerful enough to keep most angels out. I’m sure it can keep you in if it wants to, and whatever Chuck’s doing it must’ve put a failsafe in place. It wants us in here, trying to keep us safe.”

“What if we tell it it’s safe?”

“Then we need someone on the outside. Communication’s down.”

“What about angel radio?”

“You try it yet?”

“Oh _come on_,” Dean groaned. “Chuck’s done with us. It’s time for him to break his toys and throw ‘em away.”

Dean nearly shuddered at the thought. So that’s what he’d been. Just some pretty doll on a shelf, or a character in a book, or a TV show. The injuries, the trauma, the heartbreak, the depression, the grief, the aching hurt he felt inside now, the self-loathing, the disgust, the violations, all of it. It was from the guy who ran it all, the head manager of the fucking universe.

Yep, he needed more alcohol.

He took another sip of scotch, but the burn of it down his throat wasn’t satisfying because he though maybe he was satisfying Chuck. Fucking Chuck. Was all the alcohol his doing too? All the pointless sex? All the pining? All of it? Was Dean even real?

God damn it!

Were Sam and Cas having these thoughts?

How were they talking about plans? How were they doing it? Dean just wanted a quick death, but they were making him sit with them.

More people controlling him. It made him resent them.

“Dean—” Castiel began.

“Shut up.”

He couldn’t hear Cas’ voice right now. A million emotions went through him when he spoke, and he could hardly interpret them. The worst of it was that he wasn’t filled to the brim with anger. He was just hurt, and it was because there was something underlying it. Something he didn’t want to give a voice to. But maybe if they were going to die he was going to have to do so.

Or he could keep running from it.

Either way he didn’t want to do this anymore.

“Dean,” Sam tried. “I know it sucks. It’s like we never saved the world, or ever did anything—”

“Great pep talk.”

“—but let’s last a few days, okay?”

“Why?” he asked.

“Because maybe we’ll figure something out!” Cas yelled. “Don’t you want to fight?”

Dean stared hard at him, pursed his lips. Then he shook his head.

“No.”

Castiel seemed to lose it at that. He was up out of his chair, grabbing Dean and slamming him against a pillar.

“Don’t you dare, Dean Winchester!” he snarled, voice all low and gravelly. He didn’t even seem to realize his hand was on his hurt arm, which was in a similar place to where he’d scarred him when he’d lifted him from Hell, though on the opposite side. Dean’s years of training kicked in, trying to fight him off, but Cas held him tight. “Don’t. You. Dare! You’re my family. You taught me what humanity is, what free will is, what it feels like to fight for something. I refuse to believe that was Chuck. That was you! You’re a warrior. Maybe you’re content with letting yourself die in this bunker, but I’m not. I dragged you out of perdition once, and I’ll do it again. _Have faith._”

There were tears in Dean’s eyes, and he told himself it was from the pain flaring down his arm into his hand.

“In what?” he asked, voice quiet as he stared into those blue depths that burned into him.

They breathed heavily, just staring at each other. God was more than gone. He was the enemy, and Heaven was nearly dead, and the Earth crawled with the monsters they’d killed, and Hell was… Hell.

There was nothing.

“In me.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains suicidal thoughts.
> 
> As a fun thing, it also contains a reference to my fic [Deathless](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9898379/chapters/22189616)!
> 
> Also, who's ready for the premiere tonight? I'm not, but I'm wearing as much Supernatural merch as possible, and I've been practicing crying.

For long moments Dean couldn’t find the right words to say, and when he did speak his voice didn’t hold all his truth, lacked strength: “And you trust me, Cas? After…?”

He left the question hanging in the air.

Castiel understood.

_After Jack. After I tried to kill him._

Dean faced him down, guilt ripping into his stomach, and up to his diaphragm till there was a yawning pit in him and it was hard to breathe. And the blue eyes so near him held something he knew he deserved to be looked at with: betrayal.

Castiel ground his teeth together and lowered his head.

“You didn’t follow through,” he forced out. “I have to hope that means something, or else I don’t know what I’m doing here with you.” He released Dean and then gave Sam the same hard look. His brother bowed his head, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “With either of you,” he added. “You are my family, but Jack was my family too. And if you can’t believe in that, then don’t bother having faith in me.”

Cas started walking away, and Dean was too stunned to say anything.

“Cas―” Sam tried.

The angel was gone before he could finish talking.

“What now?” Dean asked breathing out hard, slumping against the pillar. “We all gonna write suicide notes and share ‘em with the class?”

“No.” Sam slid the notebook and pen towards him. “You’re on food duty.”

Now it was Sam’s turn to start leaving, and Dean asked as he approached the table to grab the notebook, “What, where are you going?”

“Gonna see if the Men of Letters stocked up on any explosive artifacts. An explosion got us out last time, maybe it can do it again.”

“Sam, we sealed that wall up, and everything else, it’s… it’s caved in. We never got to fix it, remember? We’ll just bring the ceiling down on ourselves.”

Sam shrugged, but still left.

Dean growled at his absence, at Castiel’s, and he grabbed the notebook and the pen. He eyed the sling lying on the floor where he’d left it. He shook his head, and went to do his duty.

There wasn’t a lot of food they had left, mostly the boring stuff no one wanted to eat but kept around anyway. He figured if they rationed they could make it last two weeks.

But was two weeks even worth it?

Dean didn’t think so.

His room was calling to him, the walls decorated with his guns.

His heart wanted to say goodbye first, telling him he owed his family that much, but they’d stop him. He knew they would. Those idiots were too compassionate, too hopeful. Or maybe they were hanging on by a thread.

“No, Dean, don’t do it,” he grumbled to himself. “Don’t be stupid.”

With his list of all the food written down, along with ideas for rationing and meals, he went looking for Sam in the storage room. His brother’s back was to him as he entered, and he was digging through a drawer. Sam’s hair seemed a bit different, but Dean couldn’t figure out what it was.

There was a pile of ash off to his left, and Dean frowned at it as he asked, “Find anything?”

“Uh… the Men of Letters kept a lot of stuff.” As he spoke he held up an amulet. It dangled on an iron chain, and the metal encircled a gem of glowing blue-white cut into a rhombus. “Don’t know what this is,” Sam commented, setting it aside on a table without another glance. “But yeah, don’t touch anything. I’m only certain about what two of these things do, and one of them spontaneously combusted.”

“That the pile of ash?”

“Yeah. Notes say that it’ll reconstruct itself in an hour or two.”

Dean went over to the ash and crouched down to dip his fingers into it, as if he could test its potency. “It strong enough?”

“Don’t think so. Not unless we can find an amplifier.”

“And uh, what’s the other thing do?” Dean asked, looking over Sam’s shoulder, seeing him rifle through different wooden boxes inscribed with symbols.

“Makes your hair grow.”

Dean couldn’t help but smile, even in their grim situation, and grabbed a lock of Sam’s hair. Yeah, now he could tell. There was an extra half inch added on to it. Made it look fluffier too.

“Huh, Rapunzel.”

Sam smacked his hand away, and backed up.

“Dude, leave me alone.”

“Alright, was just trying to see if I could help.”

Sam rolled his shoulder and glared, “You’ve helped enough.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know damn well what it means. Maybe Chuck wouldn’t have gotten involved if you didn’t lock Jack up.”

“Hey, you did that too.”

Dean tried taking a step closer, and Sam drew something from the box he’d just been handling. It was a simple wooden rod, but Dean wasn’t eager to find out what it did. Sam surely didn’t know either, but apparently he felt like he needed to defend himself.

“No,” he told him, tears building in his eyes. He angrily pointed the rod at him, making Dean take a step back, raising his good hand defensively. “You _made_ me do that. You-you… You forced me. And for what? So-so we could lose him? Is that it? Did you not care about him?

“Sammy, I loved that boy,” Dean argued, heart aching. “But he was gone. No soul, no Jack. He was destroyed when he saved us from Michael. I know it, and you damn well know it too. That thing we locked up. It wasn’t Jack.”

“No, no―”

“It wasn’t our son.”

Sam’s grip tightened on the rod, knuckles turning white, and then he lowered it, shaking his head. “We’re not doing this. We’re not going out like this ― fighting. Mom wouldn’t want it.”

“Well Mom’s not here.”

“And that’s _my fault_,” Sam told him. “I brought Jack back when he died. And now you’re gonna take it out on Cas? Come on, man.”

“He’s to blame too.”

“Then we all are! We were all his parents. We all failed him. But there’s nothing left to do. He’s _gone_. We all fucked up, and we could either fuck up some more for Chuck’s _entertainment_, or we could do what he wouldn’t want us to, and get over it.”

“Oh, so you want me to forget? You want to forget?”

“There’s no forgetting this stuff,” Sam argued. He took in a deep breath, and looked down at his feet for a long moment before continuing, “But there’s forgiveness.”

“Yeah, well I was never really good at that anyway,” Dean drawled, and then he left. 

If his brother wanted to go on a “love and family conquers all” crusade then Dean wasn’t having it. What he would be having was more scotch.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to update my multi-chapter fics! Here's the next one.

Castiel had gone to the garage. Those were the only doors they hadn’t tried. He knew his plan was surely fruitless, but what else could he do? He’d been able to hear that Dean was taking care of the food, and Sam was searching through the artifacts.

The doors wouldn’t budge.

Castiel screamed, pushing, palms flat against them.

“Damn it!” he cried, giving up, and sinking to the floor.

The world around him blurred, his chest aching, and it wasn’t till his face was sufficiently wet that he realized he was crying.

_Jack. Oh, Jack, I’m so sorry._

He was the only person Castiel felt as though he needed to say sorry too. He’d failed him. He’d been chosen _by Jack_ to be his father, and he’d failed him.

Castiel looked up, not to God, but to Heaven, and who he knew was up there.

“Kelly, I… I _failed him_. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t want to. That boy, our boy, he became my life. He was everything to me. But I wasn’t enough. Maybe I never could’ve been.” Cas hissed in a breath, breathing hard. More tears fell. “I am truly sorry. I didn’t want this. I wish more than anything that he could be here with me right now, that I hadn’t failed him, failed you. But the world’s ending, God’s not who we thought he was, and Jack… Well, there’s nothing we can do now. Just… Kelly, I’m so sorry.”

Castiel stayed there for some long minutes, crumpled against the floor, the doors.

But then he was on his feet again, pushing with all his might, with his Grace.

The doors creaked open.

Castiel stood there, shocked, but it wasn’t new, warm air that blew in. It was just stale, stagnant.

So the outer doors must have been closed.

Still, he wanted to investigate. Thankfully, even with the bunker on lockdown, the lights on either side of the tunnel near the roof were lit. But how long would power last? With a magical bunker, it was hard to tell. Dean had once told him they shouldn’t even be able to get water in there, or electricity, but they did.

Castiel walked in. It was dark, even with the lights, and the air was dead, reminding him that maybe soon they all would be too.

He started when footsteps sounded behind him, and he turned. It could only be one of the Winchesters, but he didn’t want to see them right now.

A hard glare set itself on his face when he turned and saw Dean. He was stumbling a bit, but still kept a tight grip on the bottle in his hand.

Something stabbed Cas at that. Here was his family, someone he’d counted on, and he’d been betrayed by him, and now he wanted to drink himself to death.

God was certainly winning.

“I don’t want to see you,” Castiel said.

Dean ignored him, going up and staring into the depths of the tunnel that was supposed to lead outside.

“Good, you got the doors open.”

“I fear we’re still stuck in here.”

“Well let’s go check it out.”

Dean shambled ahead of Cas, Castiel tensing his jaw, grinding his teeth down, as he glared at Dean’s back.

He knew he only hurt so much because he loved him. But what did his love matter now that Jack was gone, and Dean had nearly been the one to do it?

“And look,” Dean went on, as they walked. “I’m not happy to be around you either.”

“Not surprised,” Castiel commented.

They had reached the outer doors, which were locked tight, even after both of them pushed on them. A tiny stream of air trickled in between the faint spaces between the doors, and the ground.

They leaned against the doors, tired, and Dean grit his teeth. Castiel looked at his arm, but said nothing. He wanted to heal Dean, even now, but he figured it wouldn’t be allowed. Still, he reached out to him, and Dean drew back.

“Don’t touch me,” he argued.

Funny. Dean had let him touch him earlier, hold him after Sam had done the procedure. But the alcohol must’ve been lowering his inhibitions, his sense of logic. The anger inside was surely ready to come out in full force.

“Then what can I do?” Castiel growled. “You’re gonna kill yourself.”

“Good. Why don’t you join me?”

“You know I can’t.”

“Then what?”

“Then maybe we fix _this_,” he intoned. “Fix us.”

Dean picked up the bottle of scotch again, and took another swig.

“There ain’t no fixing us.”

Dean started walking away, and Castiel exclaimed his name, and reached out for him.

To his surprise, the bottle was dropped from Dean’s hand, breaking onto the ground, liquid sloshing, and he had an arm against Cas’ collarbone, shoving him hard against the doors.

“My mom’s dead Cas! _Dead!_”

“And so is our boy!” Cas yelled back. “But you don’t care about that, do you?”

“Don’t pretend to know what I care about. You don’t know one fucking thing I care about. Maybe you thought it was you, but it’s not. It’s fucking not, and if you think I’m lying, you have another thing coming.”

Castiel’s eyes glistened with tears, as did Dean’s, though his friend’s face was turning red.

Friend. Was he even his friend anymore?

What were they?

Damaged, rended apart.

“At least I don’t spew my anger at every person around me!” he argued. “At least I still _care_.”

“Well none of us should.”

“Then what’s with this?” Castiel asked. “What’s the point in you feeling anything towards me? But I know this isn’t over for you, for us. I _know_ it’s not. But you know what, Dean? You’re an _ass_.”

Dean pulled back, shocked, but his forearm was still on his collarbone.

Castiel went on, words growing stronger when he saw he had taken Dean by surprise, “You can be mean, and cruel, and when something doesn’t go your way, through break things, and you try to break people. And you know what? You took me for granted. I’ve been by your side for years, putting up with your bullshit, but now I’m done.”

Dean faltered now, nearly falling as he stepped back. Glass crunched underneath his boots.

“Cas…” A tear trailed down his cheek after he’d spoken his name.

“I’m done,” he repeated, his heart breaking. “I don’t need you right now. I only need Jack, but he’s not here.” Castiel wanted to say some more biting words, but he held them in because they wouldn’t be true. “Maybe find a way to get these doors open, or go help Sam, but I don’t want you around. I need time.”

Castiel brushed passed him, walking away, and he made sure to not look at Dean’s heartbroken, forlorn face. It would be too much. He’d go right back to him.

Dean didn’t say anything as he left. He just let him walk away.

So Castiel kept walking, putting Dean behind him


	6. Chapter 6

Leaving Dean behind him wasn’t easy. Even now Castiel wanted to go back to him. But for what? To _do_ what? Hug him? Hurt him? With his emotions in a rage and a flurry, either option was off the table for now.

And Castiel didn’t want to see Sam either.

Sam had _helped._

He couldn’t believe they’d both locked up their son.

But maybe he could. This was God’s world, his story after all. Was this just what he wanted?

And out of everything, everything that was fake, made up, brought to life by his horrible father, he figured he knew — or _had known_ —what was real: him and Dean. That, _that_ was real. But now, he wasn’t so sure.

Did he have to be?

Castiel realized, that, yes, yes he did. In a world that was getting destroyed by God as a last final bang before the curtains closed, that he had to be sure about what was real, about what he wanted. And he knew they couldn’t spend it fighting. It was what God wanted, and what God wanted was the last thing Castiel planned on doing.

But he couldn’t go back to Dean.

So he went and found Sam.

The younger Winchester was sitting in the kitchen, having a half of a peanut butter sandwich as he read over some books.

“Did Dean approve of that half of sandwich?” Castiel asked.

Sam shrugged. “I looked at his rationing plan. It’s pretty solid. There’s another half waiting for him when he’s ready.”

“Don’t think he’ll be eating today.”

“How is he?”

“We fought.”

“Figures.”

“You know I’m not happy with you either, Sam,” Castiel admitted.

Sam put his finger down in between the pages of the book to hold his place, and then looked up at Cas. There wasn’t the anger in his hazel eyes that he saw in Dean’s. There was guilt, remorse.

Sam put his sandwich down, and then decided to slip a piece of notepaper with some hurried, scribbled ideas in place as a bookmark, closing the book.

Castiel just watched him, knowing that Sam — while capable of powerful emotions — tended to be more tame. It didn’t erase what he’d done though, and it didn’t fix the hole in Castiel’s chest.

“Will saying sorry even do anything?” Sam asked.

“I don’t know,” Castiel admitted, troubled by the answer.

What _would_ fix this? What would make it better.

Maybe there wasn’t anything powerful enough to do so.

Sam looked down, working his lips in that way he did when his emotions were growing in intensity and he was trying to not let himself get carried away.

“Well, just in case…” He heaved out a breath and then brought his eyes to his. “Cas, I’m sorry. I didn’t want things to go down the way they did.” Castiel opened his mouth to say something, but Sam, knowing him so well, seemingly read his mind and responded to what he’d been going to say, “But it still happened. I know.” There was a long pause, and then Sam asked, tone dead and crestfallen, “What do we do?”

Castiel squinted at him, taking him in.

This was Sam.

And Sam wasn’t fighting back against the process of coming together again, not like Dean was.

Dean was fighting everything, save for fighting for survival.

“We can forgive,” he suggested, voice going higher at the end, not sure of his statement. It was more a question.

“Is that gonna be enough?”

“No. But it’s all we got.”

Sam nodded, and then placed his thumbs before him, rubbing them together anxiously. Castiel was smoothing the pant of his thigh.

“So… are things… okay now?” Sam asked. “With—with us?”

Castiel answered honestly, “I don’t know. Not with all three of us anyway. There’s things we’ve done, things we thought we had to do. We’ve hurt each other.”

“Maybe if we’re saying goodbye we should make that right.”

Castiel shook his head. “This isn’t goodbye. I won’t let it be, no matter how determined God, or Dean is for it to end this way. And I won’t lose him, and I won’t lose you. Despite your betrayal, you’re both too important to me.”

“And what if we're not worth it?”

The only answer Castiel had to that as he got up was, “You’re the Winchesters.”

Now what to do?

It seemed foolhardy, hopeless, just plain moronic, but Castiel tried the front door. Again.

It yielded nothing. So he went and grabbed a crowbar, and he jammed it into the wheel that locked it. He strained as he pulled at the crowbar, trying to force the wheel to turn, to even get a second closer to opening the door.

After long minutes, he was sure if he was human he’d be sweating.

Aggravated, Castiel threw down the crowbar, and forced himself against the door. He screamed.

“Tried it already,” Sam said, interrupting his tirade of angry, hopeless thoughts.

Dean sauntered in.

Castiel rolled his eyes so hard he turned his body with the motion.

Dean just groaned at seeing Castiel.

“Cut it out,” Sam told them. “Both of you. Look, we need a plan. Something more concrete than just screaming at doors.”

“How about we bash Dean’s head against it?” Castiel suggested.

Dean raised yet another bottle of alcohol he’d found and said, “Good idea. I was just thinking the same thing. Alright, guys, you know what to do.” He pulled his finger across his neck. “Take me out.”

Sam growled at him, and Castiel just leaned heavily on the railing, looking down at his friends.

“We can try the tech route,” Sam said.

“Sounds hopeless,” Dean supplemented.

“Well it’s better than nothing,” Sam shot at him. “And you’re helping, whether you like it or not.” Sam grabbed the bottle of alcohol from Dean, much to Dean’s dismay, but he was too drunk to make any significant attempt at getting it back. “And enough of this.” Sam started walking towards the main control room where many of the main systems of the bunker were run. “Cas, you coming?”

Castiel glared at Dean and then he descended the stairs to follow Sam. Dean came after him, grumbling with discontent.

If this was really the end of the universe, it seemed they were going to die mad at each other.

What a quality TV show. Chuck must’ve been having a grand time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter has a surprise!


	7. Chapter 7

_ Dark _ was the wrong word to use when describing the Empty, the place that angels went when they died.  _ Empty _ was another word for it, a very apt word, but it didn’t feel so empty at the moment, not with Billie the Reaper there with Jack. She was Death, he’d learned. And they had had a lot to talk about.

They weren’t done with all the talking either.

But Jack was growing impatient. He was pacing the Empty, and that’s when he realized what it was:  _ nothing _ .

This was just nothing, and Jack realized he must be some great being to exist in it.

A great being who’d been killed by God.

“I don’t know why I have to wait,” Jack said.

“We have to wait till God is no longer on Earth. We don’t want him sensing your return.”

Jack scowled, moving at a quicker pace now: back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. If it truly was a floor he was standing on he’d be wearing lines into it.

“I can take him,” Jack argued.

“No, you can’t.” Jack just glared, and Billie went on, “But you will. Soon. You’ll have to do what we discussed.”

Jack waved a hand, annoyed, impatient. “Yeah, yeah, the Grigori hearts, I know.”

“Jack, this isn’t something you should just wave away. You will kill God, and I will reap him.”

“Then why haven’t we done it already? He— The longer he’s out there, the more he could be hurting my family.”

Jack sat down, pulling his knees up to his chest and ran his hands through his hair, over the sides of his head.

“Your family who locked you up, wanted you dead?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

Jack hadn’t understood at first, but now he did. In the Empty he was a lot more clear-headed, though he still wasn’t sure about the fate of his soul. Maybe he didn’t need it. He just needed power.

But underneath that there was still love for his dads.

Castiel hadn’t interfered at all. He’d tried to save Jack. In the end, Sam had too. And Dean had been able to carry through. They’d all screamed when Jack was dying.

They cared.

As for locking him up, Sam and Dean hadn’t wanted to do that. Jack just knew it. It was something they thought they’d had to do.

And waiting here was something Jack had to, though he greatly hated it.

“Billie, I want to see them.”

She held out her hand towards Jack, assuring it was a power he already had within him.

Jack placed his hand against what he registered as the floor (though it really wasn’t one) in the Empty, and he closed his eyes, thinking of his Dad’s. It was natural using his powers, even here.

When he opened them again, after a spark of power had flurried from his hand, he could see his dads, like he was looking through a window. With minor curls and bends of his fingers he could even change which angle he looked at them from, how close he was.

They were in a room in the bunker he hadn’t been in before. There were a lot of dials, readouts, and wires. And they were mad.

That much was obvious. Their shoulders were raised, tense, and Dean and Castiel kept glaring at each other, something that broke Jack’s heart. Sam seemed to be a little less angered, but he was concentrating hard, sleeves rolled up, some sort of tool in his hand.

Jack couldn’t hear them, hadn’t willed that to happen. In a way, he didn’t want to hear them. It wouldn’t be real. Well, it would be, but it’d be like he was actually there, which he wasn’t. Already he wanted to reach out his hand to them, open his arms, hug them, feel it as they hugged him back. Jack missed their sturdiness, missed what he’d ended up associating as “dad smell,” though it differed with each one. He missed their warmth, he missed their voices, their smiles.

But there was none of that now.

They were cold with each other, no warmth there at all. And they seemed desperate.

“Are they save in there?” Jack asked, knowing that Billie must know what he was referring to.

“In a way.”

Jack turned from watching his dads, looking back at Death.

“In a way?” he repeated, asking it as a question.

“They survived the zombies.” Jack smiled at this information, but it fell as Billie went on. “But now they’re trapped in the bunker. It thinks they’re in danger — which they are — so it’s put them on lockdown to protect them.”

“Can God get in?”

“He has before.”

Jack stood up in a flash. “Then we have to do something!”

“Not yet. Chuck believes he’s finished with them. He won’t do anything just yet.”

“But…” Jack trailed off when he realized he didn’t have an argument for Death. To her, love wasn’t a strong enough argument. He’d learned since the time he’d been there with her that she had no love. There was only her job, a wish for balance. And there was no balance, not with the universe ending. Jack looked down at his dad’s again. Sam had a sling. Another sling rested on one of the control panels, and Dean seemed to be favoring his right arm. Jack could see a swath of heavy bandages on it. “They’re hurt,” he eventually argued.

“And they have been hurt before. They will get through this.”

“How do you know?”

Billie didn’t smile, but it was in her voice as she said, “They’ve looked worse, particularly when they’ve died. And they avoided the permanence of that many a time. Some injuries aren’t going to knock them down.”

Jack screwed up his face, almost pouted. He didn’t really like it, but maybe Billie was right.

His dads were tough, strong.

Jack sat back down on the floor, watching as it seemed like they started arguing. He buried his head against his legs. He missed them.

Jack wondered if they missed him.

Billie seemed to know his thoughts and now she came over and waved her hand over the images on the floor. What Jack saw were metal lockers of some sort, a wall of them, like there was in the infirmary.

“They took your body with them,” Billie told him. “They haven’t forgotten you.”

“But what if with new power I forget them?”

Death had no answer. Jack watched and waited.


End file.
